Spoils
by midnightcat16
Summary: In a twist of fate, their positions are reversed—Nasuada is captured while Murtagh finds himself fighting for the Varden in her place—until he is captured as well. "If I asked, would you fight for me? Change sides for me? Betray your comrades for me?"
1. A Fateful Encounter

A/N: Because I couldn't not write another Murtagh/Nasuada fic. Enjoy and leave a review :)

* * *

Murtagh glanced up from the patch of earth he had been examining to the sun that was steadily making its way towards the edge of the horizon. Evening was quickly approaching and it would soon be too dark to read any more tracks reliably. The group he was following had without a doubt come this way—it was time for him to turn his attention from hunting them to hunting down some dinner.

He turned back towards where his two companions were (mostly) patiently waiting for him. Owen, a young and somewhat anxious, high-strung man, was nervously fidgeting with the dagger at his waist, looking around uneasily at the sparse forest where they were currently stopped. His horse, having sensed his nervous energy, had his ears pricked forward, waiting tensely.

"Have you finished your inspection yet, sir? Best be moving on, if you ask me," he said, still eyeing his surroundings uneasily.

"Let the man work," his other companion reproached lightly. Steven, a man older than the other two combined, sat calmly on his dappled gray horse. He was everything Owen was not: lean and wiry where Owen was stout, composed where Owen always had something to be anxious about, and where the other man's face was young and cleanshaven, Steven had a gray beard to match his mount. Still, Owen was an accomplished magician, and more than made up for his nervous temperament.

"No, I've finished. Let's find a place to bed down for the night."

Murtagh hoisted himself back into the saddle and gently nudged Tornac forward with his heels. They traveled for about half an hour before they found a small clearing in a ring of trees that Murtagh claimed satisfactory. The three men dismounted and set about their camp duties—Owen collecting wood for a fire (they were still far enough behind their quarry to risk one), Steven tending to the horses, and Murtagh hunting.

Dinner was plain: a couple of rabbits Murtagh had caught and a bit of bread from their saddlebags. It was the third day of the hunt and they would have to start rationing their supplies more strictly.

They were quiet after dinner. Steven whittled a piece of wood while Owen could be heard practicing incantations under his breath. Murtagh stared into the flames of the campfire, noting the occasional flashes or green and blue Owen had snuck in with his magic. His mind wandered back to a few days ago, to the conversation that had led him to this place.

"I'm putting you in charge of this mission," Jörmundur had told him, after he had summoned him into his tent.

"Mission?" Murtagh had asked.

"Deserters," Jörmundur had said simply. "I'm afraid we've had quite a few of them recently. This battle that we're preparing for will be even bigger than the one under Farthen Dûr. People are scared, naturally."

He sighed. It was the sigh of a tired, overworked man, Murtagh noted. Jörmundur, while by no means young, was starting to show his age even more recently, the lines along his face growing deeper, his hair a darker shade of gray.

"Morale is at an all time low. Men are starting gather their wives and children and take them to safety. Can't they see? If we lose this war, there will _be_ no safety anywhere, for them or their families. Do they think Galbatorix will forgive Surda after they have so openly pledged themselves to our cause? No, every last man is needed; we can't afford to lose even one more person."

He started to pace anxiously.

"We're lucky enough to have even one dragon rider on our side. Were any of Galbatorix's eggs to hatch, this war would be all but over. We need to finish it, and soon."

"And these deserters…?" Murtagh queried, trying to get Jörmundur back on track.

"Not just deserters, defectors. Traitors gone to join the empire. Some of the other men report having heard an alarming about of pro-empire and anti-Varden sentiment from them."

He shook his head angrily.

"And they weren't common foot soldiers either—they all had some level of command. Which means they likely have information about our movements we don't want to get into the empire's hands."

"And you want me to bring them back."

"There is little point for you to waste the energy in bringing them back when they would just be facing a death sentence," he said, looking at Murtagh pointedly. "I want them dead."

Murtagh was not thrilled at the prospect of having to kill, especially men who would be most certainly fleeing and not standing their ground. Though he showed less hesitation than most at killing when necessary, and he had naturally gotten in a lot of practice since he had joined the Varden, it left a bad taste in his mouth, and the faces of the men he slew often haunted his dreams.

This was certainly a situation in which it was necessary. Not only because valuable information was in danger of falling into the wrong hands, but because he had been ordered to—and he had sworn loyalty to the Varden—to Nasuada, and then Jörmundur when leadership transferred over to him. Jörmundur, while he was an honest man that Murtagh respected, he did not have the wisdom and quiet authority that Nasuada had commanded, nor the serene confidence that she naturally instilled into those around her.

 _If only she were here now,_ Murtagh had mused internally. _We would not be having these problems._

He pushed the thought of her out of his mind. Though it had happened several months ago, the pain still felt fresh.

"Eragon tells me you are an excellent hunter, and an accomplished woodsman. I have heard about your travels to Farthen Dûr from him. He trusts you with his life, and I have decided to place my trust in you as well."

It had taken time and a lot of patience, but Murtagh had little by little managed to gain the trust that his unhappy lineage had unfairly cost him. Of course, having the backing from a dragon rider did not hurt, nor did the Varden's desperate need for soldiers.

"And will I be going alone?"

Jörmundur shook his head.

"I've chosen two other men to go with you. They are both strong and trustworthy, and more importantly, one is a magic user. His abilities will be quite useful during the journey."

"Understood."

"Three of you, and three traitors. Take care of things quickly and return—we'll be needing you for the next battle. You leave at dawn."

Murtagh briefly met with the men who were to be his new companions to discuss logistics, then went to his tent to prepare for the next day. He did not really have anyone to say goodbye to—Eragon was off training with the elves, and would most likely not come until right before the next battle. And the only other person he had ever really spent time with was…

 _Stop,_ he ordered himself. He did not have the time or the luxury to have these thoughts before an important mission. They came anyway, unbidden.

They had grown close in a surprisingly short amount of time. Ever since Nasuada had come to visit him in that windowless cell in Farthen Dûr, he felt drawn to her. Her beauty and elegance intrigued him, as did her cultured speech and refined manner. She was educated on a variety of topics and he found himself enjoying a conversation more than he had in quite a while. The only women Murtagh had ever conversed with before had been those of Galbatorix's court—shallow, grasping characters. Nasuada outclassed them all.

And Nasuada did not distrust Murtagh because of his unfortunate parentage, as many others did, a fact that initially baffled and pleased him. Even Eragon, after traveling together for months and saving his life more than once, had turned on him the moment he confessed. He had forgotten what it felt like to be trusted in spite of who he was.

And their personalities complemented each other, their temperaments matching perfectly. She exhibited all the values he admired in another person: she was intelligent, honest, confident in her abilities, kind, and not to mention exceptionally lovely.

After her father died and she had taken over command of the Varden, she had set him free, granting him official permission to leave. He refused it, choosing to swear loyalty to her instead. He would never forget that moment, looking up from where he knelt in front of her, the relief and joy palpable on her face.

They traveled side-by-side during the march to Surda, their easy conversation making the long trek on horseback much more bearable. She commented on his horse and wanted to know about the man it was named after, he admitted how surprised he was at how much she knew about fighting a war, she confessed she never really wanted to lead, but felt compelled by her sense of duty. They covered every topic in the world, yet somehow never ran out of things to discuss. Each day passed quickly, morning melting into afternoon, afternoon fading into evening, the bright pinks and oranges of the sunset peeking through the mountains surrounding them. Night covered them like a blanket, prompting more intimate conversation. They did not have the time or the luxury to be shy about their feelings for each other. They were at war.

For the first time, Murtagh started to wonder about his future after the fighting ended. Surely even someone like him deserved to have a family.

It happened on their last day of traveling. Two hard weeks they had spent trekking through the mountains, and finally they emerged onto flat ground. The sighs of relief from the haggard travelers were quite audible.

It was short-lived. There was an ambush waiting for them—perhaps they were Galbatorix's forces, or maybe they were just urgals wanting revenge for Farthen Dûr. Their numbers were not overwhelming, but they still amounted to a full battalion, and there were more than a few kull.

The Varden had anticipated safe passage in Surda and were unprepared for the battle. Though they managed to get the elderly, the children, and others who couldn't fight to safety, they lost many in the process. Nasuada fought bravely alongside Murtagh, despite protests from Jörmundur, but Murtagh was glad to have her watching his back. She was strong and fearless, striking down urgal after urgal.

A nasty kull stepped into Murtagh's vision and he was momentarily distracted by the sheer enormity of the beast. He managed a blow on one of its legs, bringing it to its knees, then removed its head with a powerful stroke. It was over quickly—it could not have taken more than a minute. But when he turned around, Nasuada was gone.

After the battle was over, they searched for their leader, but found nothing—no body, no weapons, not even remnants of clothes. They eventually gave up, coming to the conclusion that she must have been seized by one of the fleeing urgals and killed elsewhere. They had no doubt that she was dead.

Jörmundur was given emergency leadership, which was later made official in a formal ceremony once they made it to Surda's capital.

Murtagh's reasons for fighting with the Varden had vanished in a single unlucky moment that he had his back turned. He briefly considered leaving, but decided against it. Nasuada had dedicated her life to a cause she had believed in completely, and now that she was gone, he would fight in her stead. He found himself swearing loyalty once more, though this time the face looking down at where he knelt showed only caution in place of joy.

So here he was, in the middle of the forest with his two strange, yet dependable companions. It was a situation he would not have imagined for himself a year ago.

They traveled for three more days, getting much deeper into empire territory than Murtagh would have liked. He started pushing himself and the others more, traveling later and later into the evenings, relying on Owen's magic to light up tracks they came across.

They relied on gossip trails when they could no longer depend solely on physical ones. Owen made convincing disguises for himself and slipped into local pubs to flirt with the tavern girls or chat with the men as they drank away their exhaustion after a day's work. In spite of his anxious disposition, he could be quite charismatic when he wanted, and could usually find someone willing to tell him about the three strangers they had glimpsed riding past their town on horseback.

He heard many other kinds of gossip as well, and was happy to regale his companions with the most interesting tidbits over the campfire. This girl had gotten pregnant and ran away with the blacksmith's boy, a man in a nearby village had gone mad and tried to murder his family, a woman swore she saw the shadow of a winged beast one evening as she looked out the window, maybe it was the dragon of that Shadeslayer boy…

They set up camp a few hours outside of town. Owen and Steven took care of camp duties while Murtagh scouted around the perimeter, not sure exactly what he was looking for.

He had brought his bow with him in case he ran across any game, but he was surprised to find that there was little wildlife in the area. He could hear no sounds of birds overhead, nor rodents running through the underbrush. Instead, he found a plethora of broken branches and violent gashes on the trees, as if some wild beast had moved through the area, and a pretty sizable one at that. Whatever it was, it seemed to have frightened away all of the animals in the vicinity.

After a few more minutes of cautious exploration, he found himself emerging into a large clearing. Something at his feet caught his eye, and with the last of the quickly fading light, he bent down and examined the patch of ground in front of him.

He stood up quickly, cursing. After having traveled for months with one, how could he have not recognized the signs immediately?

The ground was covered in deep gashes and overturned earth, marks that would have been quite puzzling but for the few capable of recognizing what they were: tracks, belonging to a dragon. And they were fresh.

He turned back towards the direction of camp to warn his companions, but before he had even taken a single step, he felt a powerful blow to his head and lost consciousness.

* * *

He could hear shouting in all directions and the pounding of feet, some of the sounds alarmingly close. He was vaguely aware that he was lying on the ground and that his hands were tied behind his back.

He opened his eyes halfway. It was fully night now, but from the light of a nearby campfire and various torches scattered around, he could make out rows of tents. Men walked in and out of his vision, some of them wearing armor, and most of them carrying weapons.

He lay there for a second, dazed. Where was he?

 _His companions!_ Where were they? He moved his head as much as he could, trying to look around for them. He saw nothing.

"Hey," he heard a rough voice behind him and felt something hard forcing his head back to the ground, as if someone had a wooden staff and was driving the end of it into his skull.

"Look's like he's awake," another voice said. "Go tell the Lady Rider."

He winced as he sensed a pair of footsteps too close to his face, relaxing slightly as they hurried off. The pressure on his head did not lessen, and he waited quietly for whatever was coming next.

The voice behind him had mentioned a "Lady Rider." So those were dragon tracks that he had found, and it seemed as if their rider was female.

He felt a wave of anxiety as he realized what that meant. _Galbatorix got one of his eggs to hatch!_ Jörmundur would be beside himself. The Varden would be hard-pressed to win the upcoming battle.

The battle… Jörmundur knew Galbatorix was rallying his forces to march in the direction of Surda. He must have stumbled upon the enemy encampment. Just as he was wondering why Owen hadn't heard of any rumors of soldiers in any of the taverns he visited, he could hear the footsteps returning, this time with a greater sense of urgency.

He heard a low voice above him and strained his ears.

"Food…to…after…tent."

He was suddenly pulled to his knees and the ropes binding his hands were quickly cut. The sharp point of a lance entered his field of vision, too close to his neck for comfort.

"Try to run, and I'll embed this in one of your legs," a voice said roughly.

A lump of bread and cheese were shoved in his hands and he was ordered to eat quickly. He did, and his hands were forced behind him the second he finished, once again bound with ropes. He was pulled to his feet.

"Walk," the voice behind him growled. He could feel the lance prodding his back.

They walked deeper into the camp and Murtagh absentmindedly wondered if the traitors had made it here, and if they had been accepted. Perhaps they had been welcomed the same way he had.

"Halt," the same voice barked and he stopped in front of the biggest tent, the tent of the rider, he supposed. So he was going to meet her. Having befriended one rider already, he wondered what this one would be like. How similar would she be to Eragon?

Perhaps not so similar, if she was working for a king so infamous for his cruelty.

He saw something move in the corner of his eye, next to the tent. His heart skipped a beat as he realized it was an enormous eye staring right at him, and that it belonged to a dragon.

Its emerald-green scales glinted in the light of the torches. The creature was massive—though the darkness hid most of its bulk, Murtagh could tell that it easily dwarfed the sizable tent it was reclining next to. Its gaze pierced through him, and he had the uncanny feeling that all of his secrets were laid bare before this beast.

Two men, one on each side, grabbed an arm and escorted him roughly into the tent.

"Lady dragon rider," one of them said reverently. "We've brought the prisoner as you commanded."

Murtagh glanced around the well-lit room, his intense curiosity eclipsing any fear he may have felt under normal circumstances. He had no idea why he had been called to have a personal meeting with this "lady dragon rider," but there was no reason for her to suspect anything of him.

His gaze halted on a figure sitting at a desk, and it took him a moment to comprehend what he was seeing.

A young woman, hair and skin as black as the darkness outside, dressed in plain leather clothes. She was writing something, a letter perhaps, and she took her time finishing before she acknowledged that she had been spoken to.

Time seemed to stand still as Murtagh took her in. He had not seen her in several months, and she remained frozen in his memory as he last knew her—fierce, defiant warrior cutting down urgal after urgal, wild excitement burning in her eyes.

 _Nasuada._ The one in front of him could not have been more different.

Her appearance was similar, though she seemed slightly more muscular and her features more defined. It was the expression on her face that belonged to someone else. Her eyes still burned, but with a cool bitterness and resentment that he had once been familiar with himself. The kindness and quiet assuredness she had once worn were buried underneath caution and suspicion. When she finally looked up to acknowledge her subordinates, there was no compassion in the way she addressed them.

"Leave us. And do not come back in for anything, unless I call you."

They bowed and left quickly.

It was just two of them now, facing each other. The silence between them was a gaping chasm. It was Nasuada who crossed it first.

"Did you miss me, Murtagh?" The smile on her face mocked him.

A few moments passed before he remembered how to speak.

"How could I do anything else?" he managed to choke out.

"It seems like the rest of the Varden moved on quickly. They lost no time in naming a replacement for me." Her voice had a bitter edge to it.

"How could _they_ do anything else? We're at war with a madman. Our leader was stolen from us and we were in chaos. We searched for you for days on end, but found nothing. We thought you were dead!"

Her gaze went straight through him, as if she was looking somewhere a thousand miles away.

"No, I am not dead, though I came close to it many times. You cannot begin to imagine the pain I have endured at the hands of that 'madman' since we last met."

Murtagh knew from firsthand experience about Galbatorix's fondness for torture, both physical and mental. "Do not forget that I grew up alongside the king. I know more than you think," he said quietly.

"You grew up alongside the king as the son of his favorite servant. I am—was—the leader of a movement attempting to undermine his authority and overthrow him. He tortured me endlessly. First, for all of the information I had about the Varden, then, once he had gotten that, for his own amusement."

Her voice was harsh, the pain evident in her voice.

"And it only got worse once Kieran hatched for me. As if the intense, brutal training sessions are not enough, I am forced to use my strength to kill those who I once devoted my life to help, and to oppose a cause that my own father helped found."

"Let me save you," Murtagh said, a quiet desperation in his voice.

"I have been forced to swear every oath in the ancient language that Galbatorix could come up with. He knows my name, both of our true names. There can be no salvation for me, lest it be through death at another's hand. Will it be yours, Murtagh? You would be saving my soul, and the lives of thousands."

He didn't know if it was a challenge or a request. Either way, it was not once he was ready to face.

"I could never," came his low declaration, revulsion evident in his voice. "And I do not think Eragon could either, had he the strength."

"Then you condemn me," she said, turning away from him. Her shoulders sagged. She did not carry herself as proudly as she once had, he noted.

"How could this have happened to us?" she lamented quietly to herself. "I knew I would never have a normal life, but I never expected anything like this."

"It should have been me. If I could, I would have taken all the pain in your stead."

Nasuada glanced back at him, admiring his figure. He had a serious expression on his face, his jaw clenched resolutely. He looked quite fierce, despite having his hands bound behind him.

"And I would not have let you," she said, her lips quirking. "I was always so determined to prove that I could handle any obstacle, any burden, as well as any man could. But I'm close to breaking."

"Then let me help piece you back together."

"And how will you do that?" she asked softly, moving closer to him. Murtagh suddenly found it much harder to concentrate.

"We once spoke of a future together."

"That future disappeared the moment the egg hatched for me."

"Eragon can do it. He can destroy the king."

"It is impossible. The king has been amassing power for decades, and he will only continue to get stronger. I have sworn an oath not to divulge any of his secrets, but he has magic to make himself powerful without limit."

"That can't be possible," he contested. "He must reach a limit somewhere."

"And yet it is." She shook her head. "No, the future we once dreamed of is gone. I will have to abandon those desires and focus on the ones within my reach."

"And what is it that you desire? In this very moment." His heart was beating quite fast now.

She looked at him appraisingly.

Her eyes were dark as she answered. "To claim you as my spoils. To take you with me wherever I go and have you warm my bed in the evenings."

The room felt suddenly very warm. She narrowed the distance between them, until their faces were only inches apart. She reached her arms around him and he felt his bonds slackening as she cut them. He had not even realized she was holding a dagger, so absorbed was he in their conversation.

She threw the blade to the side and moved her hands to his chest. He placed his hands tentatively on her waist, as if he had not yet decided whether to push her away or draw her in to him.

"You told me once on our journey to Surda that you loved me. Is that still true? Or have you found a more suitable woman, one who isn't a dragon rider and technically your enemy?"

"My feelings for you have not changed."

"Then show me," she breathed.

His arms tightened around her, and he crushed his lips against hers, trying to convey all of the passion he felt for her in a single kiss. She returned it, sliding her hands up his chest and tangling her fingers in his hair. Murtagh had forgotten what bliss felt like.

She moved her hands back to his chest and began to undo the laces. He let her pull off his tunic and kicked it aside. Her hands slid up to the knot at the back of his neck and traced her fingertips down the long, jagged mark etched into his skin. He shuddered. He had never let anyone touch his scar before and it felt strangely intimate, almost more so than the way they were already touching.

She began to lead him to the low bed behind them and gently pushed him down onto it, until he was sitting up and she was straddling his hips. She guided his hands up to the laces at the back of her shirt and he undid them readily, relishing the sight of the fabric sliding down her smooth, ebony shoulders. He tugged it down the rest of the way, admiring her form and how agonizingly soft her skin looked. She placed her hands on his and brought them to her breasts, and he closed his eyes as she leaned forward into him, letting the night envelop them as they enveloped each other, their shapes intertwining, gasps and passionate whispers filling the room.

They held each other close after their lovemaking, waiting for their heartbeats to slow. Nasuada's back was pressed against his chest, and he ran his fingertips along her side, over her hips, admiring the way her body curved. She shivered and turned towards him, pressing her lips once more against his.

After a few minutes, she pulled away, looking at him. He examined her face as well, noting that her expression had softened, but that the bitterness was still there, just buried. He wanted to kiss her until it disappeared, along with the unfortunate circumstances they had found themselves in.

"And what will Jörmundur say once he finds out you slept with an enemy commander?" she teased gently.

" _If_ he finds out," he corrected. "Besides, I swore an oath to you before him. My loyalty lies with you more than it does with the Varden."

"That's not a good thing," she said, nuzzling her face in his shoulder. "Considering who _my_ loyalty lies with."

Murtagh considered that fact silently, frustrated with how little power he had to change the situation he had been suddenly confronted with.

"If I asked you, would you stay with me?" Her head rested on his shoulder and her hand traced patterns on his chest. "Would you fight for me? Change sides for me? Betray your comrades for me?"

He didn't answer. She didn't press any further.

Murtagh drifted off to sleep, trying not to think about what the morning would bring. He was technically still a prisoner, he was sure, though probably one with special privileges. He could not decide whether or not that was a good thing.

She roused him before dawn and ordered him to get dressed quickly. She waited impatiently outside the tent while he pulled on his clothes and fumbled with the laces.

He stepped outside and was surprised at the lack of guards—at least, those who were conscious, he realized.

"Magic," Nasuada explained. "They won't even realize we were gone."

She failed, however, to explain where it was exactly that they were going.

She directed him to climb onto Kieran, who gave him a flat stare, then slowly lowered his massive body to the ground so Murtagh could hoist himself up onto his back. She climbed up in front of him, fastened her legs to the saddle, and instructed him to put his hands around her waist.

They flew for what seemed like an hour before they slowly began to descend. The sky was still dark, only a sliver of moonlight to guide their way. Either Kieran's eyesight was significantly better than his, or he was relying on other senses to lead him. Probably both, he decided.

They landed heavily in what seemed to be a small copse of trees. Nasuada dismounted and Murtagh followed her example, unsure of where they were and what was to happen next.

She was silent for a moment. He could just barely make out her features in the moonlight.

"I've been using magic to hide the troops' movements," she began to explain. "You stumbled right into the middle of our camp yesterday, though you couldn't see it."

That explained a lot. Murtagh felt like an idiot for being so careless.

"We'll be there in a week's time. Go ahead and tell Jörmundur. I'm sure that will give you enough time to call Eragon and get your troops prepared for battle. It will not be an easy one."

It took a moment for her words to sink in. She was letting him go.

"So you are giving up your claim to your spoils?" he ventured.

A smile played on her lips and she put her hand to his face.

"I have not fallen so far just yet. Galbatorix has plans for you should you ever be unfortunate enough to find yourself his captive. I am determined to not let that happen as long as I can."

"He will punish you for letting me go."

"Yes," she agreed, "and he will most certainly come up with new oaths for me to swear as well. You should be more careful the next time we meet. Because we will meet again, and soon. That is inevitable."

She lowered her hand. "This war will end before too long, and only one of us will emerge as the winner. Do not think that just because I sympathize with your cause that I will go easy on you. Eragon has a difficult battle to prepare for."

Murtagh did not relish the idea of telling his friend that their former leader had a dragon, was their enemy, and that he would soon be facing her in battle.

"And what about my companions?" he suddenly remembered. "The ones I was traveling with when you captured me. Will you release them as well?"

"What companions?" she asked, smiling.

She planted a light kiss on his lips and began to back away, towards Kieran.

"Goodbye, Murtagh. I shall see you on the battlefield. Let us hope for a time that we can meet again as lovers, and not as enemies."

He watched her mount her dragon, who swiveled his head around and stared at him with one bright eye before unfolding his powerful wings and leaping into the sky. Murtagh watched them go, his heart bursting with too many emotions he couldn't name.

Wishing that Nasuada had pointed out the location of camp before she left, he picked a direction and hoped for the best.

There was nothing more he could do now than hope.


	2. The Clouds of War

A/N: This was supposed to be a one-shot, but I couldn't resist. Please leave a review!

* * *

Jörmundur paced his tent impatiently, as he was oft to do when he was stressed, or worried, or unable to think of an easy solution to a problem. Not that his pacing ever brought about any tangible results, other than wearing out the rug, which was a pity, as it was a gift from the King of Surda himself, and had been brought with them all the way from the capital city of Aberon.

And he had found himself with a myriad of problems today: not enough gold for their war efforts, not enough soldiers despite the slow trickle of men who found their way to camp, lured by the promise of meeting a flesh-and-blood dragon rider, not enough steel to forge weapons, not enough food for countless insatiable mouths, not enough _time._

A momentous battle was quickly approaching their doorstep, and though none of Jörmundur's birds had caught wind of any troops, he knew it was to be soon, soon.

And where was that blasted son of Morzan who he had gone so far as to trust with such an important mission? The boy—man—had been gone for several days now and the spellcaster he had sent with him had not yet contacted him to inform him that their mission had been completed or failed or whatnot. Last night, as he paced back and forth on the same spot on his rug, he decided to summon Trianna to his tent, who he requested to scry the three—after all, you could never really _order_ a magician to do anything, arrogant, prideful things that they were—and she had _graciously_ complied, conjuring the image on a small hand mirror the woman kept on her person at all times for such purposes.

He recognized the prone forms of two men (sleeping, he assumed, as it was quite late at night), their figures illuminated faintly as if they lay next to the dying embers of a campfire, but not the son of Morzan, not anywhere in the vicinity. And when Trianna once again murmured the same words, her spell focused on just one man this time, no picture appeared, only a splotch of inky darkness that swirled and expanded until it reached the edges of the mirror, completely enveloping the glass.

He had sent Trianna away then, too engrossed in his thoughts and worries to thank her, or even notice her leave.

A woman brought lunch in then, disrupting his pacing and setting down a plate laden with food on the table. He hardly felt like he could eat, he never did, but knew that, especially at his age, he needed to keep up his strength.

He was about to take a bite of cold chicken, forks inches away from his mouth, when he was interrupted. Why couldn't they wait for him to finish eating, at least?

"A man here to see you, sir," a guard informed him. "And it seems quite important, sir, if it isn't too bold of me to say."

"Send him in."

* * *

The hot afternoon sun beat down on Murtagh's back uncomfortably as he climbed up what he hoped was the last hill standing between him and the Varden camp. He had gotten directions a few hours ago from a family he had happened to cross paths with not long after he exited the small copse. There was a town nearby, apparently, one too close for comfort to the impending battle and they were making for the safety of Surda.

"The Burning Plains, you ask?" The old, grizzled man scratched a chin covered in thin, wispy hairs with a wrinkled hand. A young boy, no more than six, clutched at his other and stared at Murtagh with wide, distrustful eyes. "Aye, of course I know it, godforsaken place that it is. You'd be wanting to go southwest, towards the Jiet River. Can't see as to why you'd want to though. There's a war brewing. Best flee while you can."

Murtagh thanked him politely.

The elderly man stared at him through unusually bushy eyebrows. "You're not one of those Varden folk, are you? Off to fight the empire? I've no love for the king myself, but he's a good deal better than those rebels, those invaders, coming into our land, stirring up trouble where—"

A woman quickly shushed him and hurried him along, casting a suspicious glance at Murtagh, and he was spared the trouble of responding.

Murtagh crested the hill and sighed in relief as the camp sprawled out before him, rows of tents arranged in some haphazard order. The horses of King Orrin's cavalry were picketed one side, and men ran about tending to them. He noted a wide space near the river set apart for weapon training, and more than a handful of soldiers were sparring or shooting arrows at straw bales.

He was stopped by sentries at the edge of camp and forced to answer a few suspicious questions, but was quickly recognized for his parentage, an occurrence that had become much more common recently and which Murtagh couldn't make up his mind about whether or not it was a good thing.

He was ushered into Jörmundur's tent and instructed to give a recollection of events, which went exactly as he thought it would, which is to say quite badly. By the time he had finished telling his story, all of the blood had drained out of Jörmundur's face and he was clutching the edge of a wooden table in the middle of the room for support.

"No!" he gasped. "It can't be! Nasuada a dragon rider! And sworn to the service of the king! We knew one of the eggs hatching was a distinct possibility, but hoped since they hadn't for so long…" His eyes roved unseeing over the table littered with maps and reports, and a plate piled high with untouched food sitting neatly at one end. "Indeed, fate has a cruel sense of humor," he murmured, as if to himself. "That it would have to be her, she who devoted her entire being to this cause."

He straightened up, suddenly completely in control of himself, his earlier lapse forgotten. He had the resolve of a true military commander, which Murtagh couldn't help but admire. "The people of the Varden must not know this," he said with certainty. "Not yet. Not on the eve of what will surely be a deciding battle. It would do nothing but sow dissension and unrest through our ranks. To learn that our previous commander has betrayed us for Galbatorix… morale would plummet and people would desert by the dozens."

"Not betrayal," Murtagh avowed. "She was forced into service. Nothing she does is of her free will." He could too easily picture himself in Nasuada's position. He had almost been there once, and had lost a friend's life and risked his own fleeing that unfortunate fate. He felt compelled now to defend her honor—because she had the purest heart of anyone he had ever met and he ached at her suffering. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that he had just shared her bed. Probably.

"Nevertheless, the people of the Varden will not see it that way," Jörmundur asserted. "They must be warned about the dragon—but the rider's identity we keep secret."

"That secret won't keep for long," Murtagh warned.

"Until this battle is over at the very least. You are dismissed for now. There is much to be done in less than a week, and most importantly, Eragon must be sent for." He sent him away with a wave of his hand and glanced down at the table, for a moment appearing less like a military commander and more like the aged man he had met on the road.

Four days after the Fateful Encounter and three days after finding his way back, Owen and Steven stumbled into camp, much in the same manner Murtagh had after half a day searching for it. He greeted them, pleased that they were safe, that his carelessness had not lead them into any danger, and that they had brought Tornac with them. He took the reins from Steven's hands, and gratefully patted the animal on the neck. The beast was trembling with exhaustion, as were the other two horses. The men had ridden as hard as they could to make up for lost time.

Owen looked at Murtagh as if he had died and was meeting his ghost. Steven wordlessly clapped him on the back and led his horse to the makeshift stables, dragging the younger, visibly shaken man with him. Neither asked what had happened, for which Murtagh was immensely grateful.

He spent his days up to the impending battle trying to keep himself busy—training, taking care of his weapons, helping cut firewood and the like. He focused his mind on the task before him and never let it wander. His iron control slipped at night, though, and his memories turned into dreams of soft skin and whispered promises. _To claim you as my spoils_ she had said, and he turned that phrase over and over again in his mind, sometimes agonizing about why he hadn't insisted on staying and letting her claim her prize.

He was sharpening his sword at the armory one afternoon (under the watchful eye of weapons master Fredric) when he heard the commotion. "Shadeslayer! Shadeslayer is here!" someone ran by, shouting. He looked up from his whetstone and into the sky and saw that this was indeed correct-he could just make out the form of Saphira in the distance, her scales shimmering such a pure, deep blue that she made the sky look like a washed-out imitation. Relief and anxiety rose to his chest-he was delighted to see his friend again, but grieved at the news he would have to share with him.

A dozen men around him likewise looked up in amazement, some of them dropping their tools and running towards the edge of camp where Eragon was sure to land. Murtagh had no desire to join them, fighting the hungry crowds in a vain attempt to catch more than just a glimpse of the famed dragon rider. Besides, Eragon would certainly have dozens of nobles to shake hands with and exchange superficial pleasantries with before he would have time for Murtagh. No, he was certain his friend would find him before long.

"Oi! Come back here, you good-for-nothing slackers!" Fredric shouted, as some of the workers ran off to join in the excitement. "That boy and his oversized lizard will still be here to gawk at tomorrow, but you'll be lucky to be if you don't get this work done!" He shook a mace in the air threateningly, but pointlessly, as the men darting away had their backs to him.

A few of the men turned back sheepishly, but the rest were already out of earshot, or pretended to be.

"We've got some thousand men to get fitted with armor and only two more days," the armorer grumbled. "This is madness." Murtagh grimaced in agreement. The Varden was like a massive ant hive, but less organized, teeming with hordes of frenzied workers, each one having to be fed constantly, and outfitted-with armor and weapons—and taught how to use them, as many recruits were farmers and stable boys drawn by the promise of fame and glory or perhaps the opportunity to meet a real-life Rider and his dragon. It would be a miracle if they were ready after just a week. Not that anyone could really be "ready" for a battle. Just slightly less unprepared.

He inspected the edge of his blade, honing it against the whetstone until he was convinced it was as sharp as it was going to get. He sheathed it carefully, satisfied.

Fredric looked up from where he was mending a damaged helm and glanced at Murtagh thoughtfully. "You there, boy," he called out, and Murtagh bristled internally at the term—he had been a man for more than two years now—but kept it from showing on his face. "You know your way around a sword, don't you? How about helping one of those young lads over there choose one?"

He inclined his head at a small group of men gathered at the other side of the tent, alongside a row of broadswords, hesitantly lifting them to feel their weight. Not men—boys—he corrected internally. They couldn't be much older than fourteen, much too young to be engaging in war, but Murtagh reminded himself that there was no such definite age limit when it came to fighting battles, and he had been defending himself from enemies at an age much younger than that.

He approached the group and addressed one of the boys, "Not that one. Here, take this, it's a bit shorter and would suit your height better." The boy jumped in surprise at being spoken to, almost cutting himself with the blade, then set it down carefully and reached for the one the older man had indicated. Murtagh cursed internally. Did Jörmundur want to win so badly that he was willing to send these untrained children to what was certain to be their death?

The boy held it away from him as gingerly as if he were holding a poisonous snake. "Move it closer towards your body," Murtagh instructed, wrapping his hand around the boy's wrist and pulling it closer to the his waist. "Hold it more firmly. The last thing you want is for your enemy to knock it out of your hands. Put your hands like this—not that!—unless you want to cut yourself?"

He gave a few more instructions until he was satisfied the boy was holding it properly. "Good," he said. "This is a good blade, although a bit dull. Know how to use a whetstone?"

The boy shook his head shyly. "No, sir."

He led the boy over to the same stone he had just been using and showed him how to work it, explaining how to know when the sword was sufficiently sharp. The boy absorbed this information solemnly, giving only short answers whenever asked a direct question.

"What's your name, boy?" he asked, more out of politeness than curiosity, and the boy answered, "Nolan, sir."

"And how old are you, Nolan?"

"I'll be fourteen in two weeks, sir."

Damn. Fourteen had been too generous, it seemed. "And what is a thirteen-year-old boy doing fighting for the Varden?"

"Trying to protect my family, sir."

The boy's motives were more down-to-earth than he had originally thought. "And who is your family?" he asked, allowing his curiosity to pique.

"My mother and sister, sir. They stayed in Surda while I came here—my mother didn't want me to but—I wanted to do what I could to protect them." He blushed a bit at this last statement.

"And your father?"

"I don't know. I never met him. He died a few years after I was born."

Murtagh eyed the boy's reddening face and gently lifted the sword off the whetstone. "Here, look at the edges. Sharpened to perfection. Take this sword and know that with it, you'll be armed just as well as anyone else in the Varden. Excluding our dragon rider of course, and perhaps the elves."

The boy's eyes were wide as he held the sword again. "Thank you, sir."

"Just 'Murtagh' will be fine. No need to keep calling me 'sir.'"

He examined the boy's face carefully for a reaction to his name, but there was none, and the boy's face remained just as solemn.

"You're going to need some decent armor, too. Let's get you taken care of."

* * *

An hour or so later, Murtagh found himself walking back to his tent, thinking over his interaction with the boy. He had not grown any more talkative by the time Murtagh had found the appropriate size chain mail and helm to fit him, but he seemed to have relaxed considerably in his presence and responded enthusiastically when Murtagh offered to have a sparring session with him the next day, an offer that had surprised even himself.

He was not sure why he decided to take such a sudden, personal interest in the boy. Perhaps because he was reminded a bit of himself, thrust into a situation where he did not want to fight, but was forced to—whether it was to protect himself or because he felt compelled to protect others.

The entire experience was quite strange to him, after only being on the receiving end of instruction, to finally be the one giving it. He was not sure he was quite ready to take on the role and desperately wished Tornac were there with him, as he had many times before. He knew it was the natural order of things, for the student to one day become the teacher, he just hadn't thought the day would come so soon.

He stopped short when he noticed a figure outside his tent, arms crossed, staring pensively at the horizon. Murtagh knew that figure, perhaps even better than he knew his own. He hurried his pace to greet his friend.

At the sound of his footsteps, Eragon turned and looked at him, arranging his features into a smile. Murtagh stopped again. These were different features than he was used to.

"I didn't realize the elves would be so thorough in their training," he finally managed to say. "What happened to you?"

Eragon merely reached forward and grasped his forearm. "All in good time. There are more important things to discuss." His smile faded and he whispered, "Is it true?"

Murtagh gestured to him. "Come, let us have dinner together."

* * *

They sat in Murtagh's tent, he on his cot, Eragon on the floor. Murtagh noted with interest that while he had allowed himself a generous portion of chicken (as generous as one could get in an army camp), Eragon consumed no meat. He made a mental note to ask about it later.

They remained quiet for a few moments after Murtagh finished his tale about the Fateful Encounter (barring a few Minor Details). Eragon had stayed silent throughout most of the story, interjecting only a few time to ask for clarifications, which surprised Murtagh greatly. Where was his (sometimes) irritating, overly inquisitive friend? Where were his questions, his insatiable thirst for information? He supposed he had done a lot of maturing in his absence. Murtagh wondered if he had too.

Eragon finally stirred. "So," he said. "Fate has an interesting sense of humor. Pitting a vassal against his liege lord in a battle of the ages."

"Not interesting," Murtagh objected. "Cruel."

"I suppose so," Eragon conceded.

"So?" Murtagh demanded. "What will you do?"

"What else is there to do? Fight."

"And will you kill her, if given the chance?"

"I do not think it will come to that. I'm sure she will prove to be a formidable opponent." Eragon paused, scratching his chin. "You said she claimed that Galbatorix has 'ways to grow his power without limit.' I'm sure he will have lent some of this power to Nasuada as well. We shouldn't underestimate her."

"No, but I think we have one advantage."

"And what is that?"

"There were no reports up until now of a dragon rider loyal to Galbatorix. Meaning the king was choosing to deliberately keep her existence secret until the upcoming battle. I wager he would have sent her in halfway through, at a time the battle would seem to go badly for us in order to demoralize our troops, and to confront you after you had extended most of your energy. The king wants you alive after all, and I'm sure she has orders to capture you.

"But I found out by accident, and now we know better what kind of threat is coming, and how to prepare ourselves for it. They no longer have the element of surprise."

Eragon admired Murtagh's insight into the situation. He could always trust his friend to provide a fresh perspective on what otherwise seemed a hopeless situation.

"But enough for tonight. I want to hear about your training in Ellesméra. Tell me about the city, and the queen! I have heard all kinds of interesting rumors."

Eragon gave a brief account of his travels, including his stay in the dwarven city of Tarnag and the troubles he had found himself in there, the days they spent traveling up the Az Ragni via raft, finally reaching the magnificent city of Ellesméra and meeting the queen. He gave a vague outline of his lessons (leaving out a few Not So Minor Details himself) and spent a deal of time embellishing his experiences at the Blood-oath Celebration and the dance that had given him the body of an elf and cured him of his deformities. "It's completely gone now, my scar," he said, absent-mindedly touching the base of his neck where the knot used to be. "It was wearing away at me, having all so many attacks every day. It's one less worry I have now, at least. "

He lapsed into silence, not noticing the sudden hardened edge to Murtagh's expression as his mind drifted back to how badly the celebration had ended.

It was Murtagh's turn now to be quiet after the tale had ended. They sat for a while, both wrapped up in their thoughts, until the candle burned low and threatened to go out. Eragon excused himself, knowing that, as a human, Murtagh needed more sleep than him. He had noticeable dark bags under his eyes, or perhaps it was just the shadows cast by the flickering candle. Murtagh nodded and wished him goodnight, waiting until Eragon had left the tent and melted into the darkness before he blew out the light.

The next day came too soon, and not soon enough. Shaking off his dreams and wrenching open his bleary eyes, he reluctantly pulled himself from his cot and got dressed. He buckled on his sword and left his tent in search of breakfast.

The camp was so large that it took him almost fifteen minutes to reach the cook's tent, already bustling with the morning breakfast rush, the guardsmen finishing their nightly watches to eat their last meal before bed, armorers and smiths hurrying to scarf down a quick meal before a busy day of work, the noises of the indignant animals being brought to slaughter and the voices of the cooks shouting over each other adding to the mix to form a familiar, cacophonous melody in Murtagh's ears.

He waited in line for a meager slab of ham and chunk of bread, eating them as he walked towards the armory where he had promised Fredric he would spend the day helping outfit more soldiers with weapons. He was kept busy most of the morning until the weapons master stopped him, jabbing his finger meaningfully at the sky where the sun had managed to crawl it's way up without him noticing, and handing him a bowl of something hot and a mug of ale, which Murtagh accepted gratefully.

Nolan showed up sometime in the afternoon, peeking into the tent at where Murtagh was sharpening a dagger, his gaze patient, but pointed. Murtagh lips quirked in amusement and stepped outside, directing the boy behind the tent. They sparred with real weapons, though deliberately slowly, because Nolan needed to get used to the weight of his new sword, and training blades would not offer that.

They were in the middle of practicing a move when Varden horns began to sound throughout the camp. The two froze, listening intently, then Murtagh ordered Nolan to find his assigned batallion and quickly, while he sheathed his sword and ran towards the edge of camp.

He skirted around tents, dodging horses and men hurriedly donning their armor and grabbing their weapons. He caught sight of the massive form of Saphira a little ways ahead, Eragon on her back, both of them looking over the ramparts. He approached them, and the two men exchanged glances.

They waited several minutes, which to Murtagh felt like several hours. By then, a considerable amount of men had joined them. They pressed in, too close. Someone behind him sneezed. A few coughed. Impatient horses snorted and pawed at the ground. More minutes dragged by and Murtagh wondered if there had ever been a time he hadn't been standing here. A different lifetime perhaps. Finally, he heard a man to his right shout out, "I see them!"

Everyone tensed and strained their eyes. What Murtagh had mistaken for a haze in the distance detached itself from an outcropping of rocks several leagues away and slowly began to make its way toward the Varden camp. His eyes widened as he realized what he was looking at—the empire's army, so immense that it stretched far beyond the limit of human vision, blurring into a shadowy mass alongside the Jiet River in the distance. Men around him muttered in disbelief at the colossal size of the army. _This_ is what they would be fighting?

Not far away from Saphira stood Jörmundur, and Murtagh could hear him conferring with one of this commanders. "—preparations to send an envoy immediately, discuss terms—"

Their conversation was cut short, drowned out by an deafening roar. The murmurs grew silent and the Varden turned their attention once again to the mass of soldiers in the distance. As they watched, a shadowy figure detached itself from the blur of the soldiers, rising upward on the thermals, its enormous wings stretched out. The dragon—for there was nothing else that it could be—roared again and a clap of thunder resounded as it flapped its massive wings. The shadow of the dark, ominous clouds hid its true color, but Murtagh knew that it was a deep, rich green, its splendor unmatched by any emerald the rich earl's wives of Galbatorix's court wore around their necks.

He thought he could just barely make out a slender figure on the back of the beast, and he let his imagination fill in the rest—proud, bitter eyes offset by an alluring smile that seemed to say _I've come to claim my spoils._

"She's here," he breathed.


End file.
